


A Wish on a Passing Car

by Joy_in_the_House



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Except not drunk, Gen, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, I played with the timing, I'm Sorry, Just incredibly sleep deprived and pain medication, Kidnapping, Lance had three daughters, Laurel doesnt die, Minor Quentin Lance/Donna Smoak, Neither does Quentin, Quentin Lance is a good man, When I say divergence I mean MAJOR, and a good dad, not sorry, so sorry but not sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-01-28 22:00:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21399322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joy_in_the_House/pseuds/Joy_in_the_House
Summary: Quentin Lance had three daughters. One was an alcoholic. One was a vigilante. One was abducted.He doesn't have a good track record with his daughters, but he's trying.It's been a year. He can't cope. He's on dry land, but he's drowning.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 8





	1. All of My Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought of this last week. I'm hoping it passes muster.  
Story title is from "Waiting for Superman" by Chris Daughtry.  
Not beta'd.

** _ Victim file_ **

_ Name: _ _ Jessa Alierta Lance _

_ DOB: 28/03/1998 _

_ Place of birth: Toronto _

_ Date of incident: on or around 18/11/2018 _

_ Witnesses: none _

_ Persons suspected: no conclusive evidence. Circumstantial evidence points to ex-boyfriend. No motive. Nothing to pin down. Inconclusive. _

_ Interviewed persons with connection to victim: _

_ Felicity Smoak- employer, friend _

_ Oliver Queen- friend _

_ John Diggle- friend _

_ Ray Palmer- friend _

_ Joyce Faulkner- former roommate, friend, co-worker (Executive Assistant to Ms Smoak)_

_ Detective McKenna Hall- former coworker _

_ JD Anders- ex-boyfriend _

_ Laurel Lance- sister _

_ Sara Lance- sister _

_ Capt. Quentin Lance- father _

_ Incident: _

_ Victim was allegedly pulled into van while walking home, sometime after a charity event regarding Palmer Tech and [redacted]. Victim left event venue 1735. Victim had been in contact with Capt. Lance at 1409-1525 hours, event spanned 1530-1730 hours. Suspect was contacted several times over the next twelve hours by the following: _

  * _F. Smoak- 14 missed calls, 52 messages._
  * _O. Queen- 8 missed calls, 29 messages._
  * _Capt. Q. Lance- 29 missed calls, 79 messages._
  * _L. Lance- 9 missed calls, 58 messages._
  * _J. Diggle- 12 missed calls, 49 messages._
  * _R. Palmer-17 missed calls, 62 messages._
  * _J. Faulkner- 11 missed calls, 27 messages _

_ Capt. Lance alerted SCPD at 0130 hours on 19/11/2018. _

_ [Paragraph Redacted] _

_First round of interviews were conducted. Inconclusive._

_ [Paragraph Redacted] _

_ [Paragraph Redacted] _

_ Conclusion: _

_ Transferred to Cold Cases division on 14/06/2019 _

_ No conclusive evidence. _

_ Officer in charge of investigation: _

_ Det. J. Perkinds _

Quentin shoved the folder back into the bottom drawer, slamming it shut with more force than necessary. 

With a check of the clock - 10:40 at night - he slipped his jacket on, picking up his keys from his desk. 

He made his way out of the precinct, the usual half smile at the officers he passed. He found himself collapsing into the front seat of his car with a sigh.

He indulged himself one moment to rest his head on his arms, one moment to let him feel the exhaustion of the day. 

The radio blared as he started the car, and he smirked, one weary, bitter quirk of his lips as some way-too-chipper pop song about a milkshake and boys in someone's yard threatened to perforate his eardrums.

But he couldn't bring himself to change the station.

As he pulled out onto the street, he sighed. 

Another night pretending he wasn't depressed, a night where he was too exhausted to sleep. 

Another night where he tried to put aside the fact that out of three daughters, one was an alcoholic, one was dealing with trauma from her years away, and the other had vanished off the face of the earth.

Another night of keeping the TV volume high, annoying the neighbors, and not paying attention to the shows. 

A night of delaying falling asleep on the couch, and the inevitable jerk awake. The inevitable yell in his throat, the cold sweat as his subconscious forcibly reminded him that he couldn't even locate his daughter, and he'll never know what happened. 

He remembered her laugh on the phone, her reassurances that she'd get home safe after the charity dinner.

He remembered the smile that he could hear in her voice as she mock complained that he was a helicopter dad.

He remembered the warm love that enveloped him as he listened to her ranting about the coworker in the cubicle beside hers at Palmer Tech. The way she praised Felicity Smoak; idolized, even.

He remembered the way she called him Quentin. 

She never called him Dad, maybe because she was his adopted daughter. Growing up, her classmates laughed at her. He didn't mind. He called her Jessa; she called him Quentin. That's the way they liked it.

He-

Slammed on the brakes as the car in front of him cut him off. 

"Jerk!" He wanted to yell, but didn't have the energy. 

Instead he settled for a blank stare out the window, and a sigh as he turned on the next corner. 

He didn't remember pulling into his driveway, but as he pulled his briefcase from the passenger seat, he let himself look back to the street. He watched the sheer amount of traffic that was all of two cars go by before making himself move inside. 

He dropped his case by the door, shedding his suit jacket, losing his tie, popping his cuffs. He glanced to the fridge, knowing there was still half a case of beer. 

He kept moving to the couch, sinking down wearily, pushing the want of a beer out of his mind. If he fell off the wagon now - _ again - _there was no way he'd be able to both live with himself and help Laurel. 

He switched on the TV.

He fell asleep in an hour.

He woke up in a cold sweat, a yell in his throat, and Jessa's scared brown eyes in his mind, in two hours. 

He glanced at his phone, where he knew the team’s names were on speed dial.

He didn’t pick up the phone.

He didn't fall asleep again.

\---_ _ _--- / ---_ _ _--- / ---_ _ _---

He strolled into the precinct the next morning, clutching a coffee, praying nobody noticed his death grip on his briefcase. 

Hoping nobody noticed the dark circles under his eyes. 

Wondering if he actually remembered to eat that morning, but knowing damn well he hadn't. 

Smoak called around noon, and asked how he was.

He lied. 

Laurel texted at 4:30, and it took him ten minutes to get the courage to pick up his phone.

_Hey Dad, dinner tonight?_

He stared at his office wall, chewing on his lip.

_Not tonight, honey. Have to work. _

When Laurel's reply came through, he closed his eyes.

_Okay. Next week. Love you- Laur <3_

He felt like a fraud.

\---

He staggered out of the precinct at 11 that night. 

He sank into his front seat.

The drive home was quiet. 

Sara was in his kitchen when he got home, a plate of food on the counter for him. 

He found himself wrapped in her arms, and he choked back tears.

He was supposed to comfort his daughters. Not the other way around.

The two of them stayed like that for God knows how long.

Finally Sara pulled away, and with a quiet “Love you, Dad, please sleep tonight,” she was gone; letting herself out. 

He put the food in the fridge.

He didn't sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Broken Arrows" also by Daughtry.  
Hoping to get the second chapter up by Thursday.


	2. Out Here Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two.  
I honestly am so amazed this story has taken off like it has.  
Thank you.

\---_ _ _--- / ---_ _ _--- / ---_ _ _---

The next night was worse again. 

He had drowsed off somewhere around 2, and he had only woken up when he had rolled off the couch. 

He stayed on the floor for an hour, telling himself he wasn't crying. The Lance family didn't cry. Police captains most certainly did not.

He pulled a beer from the fridge, and sank back to the floor in front of the couch. 

He sat there for two hours, hating what he had become. 

-

He walked straight into his office that morning, not a word to anyone. 

If Detective Hall saw him fumble with his keys and struggle with his office door that morning, no one else needed to know.

When she came in and left a coffee (two cream, three sugars, the way he'd always taken his coffee) on the corner of his desk before retreating silently, his eyes didn't tear up. No, he yawned and his eyes watered, he told himself. 

He didn't sleep that night either.

\---_ _ _--- / ---_ _ _--- / ---_ _ _---

By the middle of November, he was becoming slower, and he knew it. 

His hands were becoming shakier, and it took half a second longer to respond with a snappy retort whenever one of the team got smart.

\---

November 18 was a bad day, he'd decided when he walked in. 

By 11 am he had called his three main detectives in for a meeting. 

By 11:10 there were black spots encroaching on his field of vision, but he ignored it.

By 11:20, there was a certain wash of vertigo that forced him to lock his eyes on the officers in front of him. He tried to ignore it. 

By 11:21 he had found himself sliding to the floor, the corner of his desk stabbing him in his kidney like a traitor. 

By 11:24 he had woken up, Detectives Hall and Jameson in his face, worried, and Detective Rian taking his pulse. 

He had forgotten to eat that morning, he told them. 

They believed him.

He had indeed forgotten; it hadn’t been entirely the truth. 

He conveniently left out the fact that he had forgotten to eat for the last two days.

He found himself back in his apartment by 12:30. 

He was out on a run by within half an hour, and if he had stumbled into an alleyway and grayed out, mist in his eyes, fog in his head, well, no one was the wiser. 

He was back in his apartment by 3.

He found himself on the couch, and he contemplated calling Sara. 

He couldn’t bother her. Or Laurel. 

This was his problem, he needed to fix it himself.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, energy nearly spent in that action. 

A few moments later, he had determined that he was probably depressed. Or so Google told him. 

He wasn’t stupid. He knew better than to let Google diagnose him. 

But he didn’t really have energy for anything else, and with that, he kicked his feet up on the table.

He woke up an hour later in a cold sweat, eyes snapping open to broad daylight. 

He scrabbled for his phone, pulling his speed dial open. 

Not Sara, not Laurel, _ not Jessa, _not Smoak.

Queen. 

Of all people who would understand…

His hand hovered over the call button, shaking. 

After a moment, he dropped back onto the couch, turning the TV on blaring. 

He went out for another run. One foot in front of the other, feeling the impact on the pavement. 

It was dark by the time he returned.

He hated what he had become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Life After You" by (you guessed it) Daughtry.


	3. My Back Against This Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope and despair at the same time are a painful mix.  
But nothing hurts more than being teased with hope before the despair rips it away, and Lance should know. He's been on this roller-coaster for years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @WinterJoy for beta'ing. My grammer would SUCK without her.

That night he went out again. Running; always running. He found himself on the sidewalks of Star City at 2 am, the only sound cars, his feet on the pavement, and his harsh breaths as he pushed himself further.

He took a moment on the next corner and checked his watch.

2:13 in the morning and he’d planned to get to the precinct by 7.

He set himself to run seven more blocks, but found himself weakened by the third.

He stumbled, and in the darkness failed to see the garbage can in front of him.

As he landed heavily on his side, the air crushed out of him in a pained groan.

With a muttered curse, he pushed himself up and knew to abort the mission.

He limped back, all 11 blocks, and forwent all impulse control.

He settled on the couch with a couple of beers and tried to fight the urge to sleep.

\---_ _ _--- / ---_ _ _--- / ---_ _ _---

_ She was scared. She hadn’t even had time to call him. _

He shifted on the couch, leg braced on the floor even as he slept.

_ He called her around the time she should’ve gotten home. _

His fists clenched, eyes still screwed shut.

_ He should’ve picked her up. _

“Lance!”

He shook his head.

_ Jessa was pounding on the door of the van that took her. _

_ His breath caught as he reached for her, running to get her back. _

_ He could hear her pounding on the door. _

_ He wasn’t quick enough, his hand not quite touching hers. _

_ She was reaching out, screaming for him. _

_ Something caught him from behind, and he hit the ground tangled in whatever was holding him- _

He found himself on the floor, tangled in someone’s arms.

“Let me go,” he commanded as he fought to get away, still seeing Jessa’s face as the van pulled away. “I need to get to her!”

Something - someone, he realized, sat him up against the couch, and he couldn’t escape.

“Lance, it’s me!” he heard.

He kept thrashing, even as his hands were pinned in place, and his yells were slowly replaced by heavy breathing as he tried not to cry.

His wild brown eyes met Oliver Queen’s worried blue ones. 

“Lance, listen to me-”

“Oh God,” Quentin whispered in realization, the panic and sheer terror haunting his mind and settling like a cold knot in his stomach.

Queen let go of his hands, and Quentin snatched them back, shaking.

“Oh God please,” he almost whimpered, one hand over his eyes. 

_ Queen. Of all people. _

He drew his sleeve over his forehead, feeling sick as he realized he was nearly soaked in sweat.

“Lance, I’m gonna help you, okay?” he heard Queen’s voice as if through a tunnel and shook his head frantically. 

“No,” he heard himself say. “I’m fine.”

“This is not ‘fine’, sir.” Quentin looked up at him, and Queen stared back. 

“I’m fine,” he insisted again as he shoved himself upward, using the couch to pull himself to standing. 

He stood there, clinging to the couch as he swayed.

Queen stood up beside him and when Quentin let go of the couch to walk away, caught him as the man’s legs buckled out from under him.

The two men landed on the floor together with a jolt, and for a moment the only sounds in the quiet room were Lance’s ragged breaths and Queen’s gentle reassurances.

After a few minutes, Lance sat up, pulling away from Queen.

“I’m fine,” he said again, voice cracked and ragged, and even he didn’t believe himself.

Queen stared at him, an eyebrow rising. 

”Are you?” he asked simply.

Lance rubbed his forehead, trying to dispel the headache that was now winding its way through his head.

“No,” he said finally.

Queen nodded.

“Okay.”

Lance’s back twinged at the position he’d found himself in, and Queen nodded towards the couch in a silent question.

“Yeah,” he muttered, and as Queen pulled him upwards and onto the couch, he pulled in a shaky breath.

As he sunk into the couch, Queen stood up and moved into the kitchen.

Quentin could hear him banging around, but he was too exhausted to even tell him to keep the noise down.

Queen came back with two mugs, pressing one into Quentin’s hands.

He stared at the steaming mug for a moment, and neither man said anything.

“Thanks,” he finally muttered, and Queen’s lips quirked up.

“It’s tea, not coffee, but it’s decent,” Queen told him.

Lance nodded automatically.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and Queen gaped at him.

“For what?” 

“This-” he waved his hand around the apartment, hoping to convey the scene that had just happened. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Queen told him softly, and Lance snorted. 

“Why are you even here, Queen?” 

“I came to talk to you.” 

Lance looked up from the mug. 

“About?” 

Oliver Queen looked uneasy for a moment, before setting down his mug and leaning forward. 

“I need to make sure you’re alright first,” he hesitated. 

Lance leaned forward.

“What is it?” he pleaded. “Just tell me, Queen.”

Oliver took a deep breath.

“We found the warehouse where she was held,” Queen said softly, and Lance felt his heart jump and wither at the same time.

“Was?” he heard himself speak, but couldn’t remember saying it.

“Felicity thinks whoever took her, moved her about six months ago. There was dried blood on the walls and floor, and the DNA was Jessa’s.” Queen looked troubled, and Lance felt sick.

“So she’s --” 

“We don’t know.”

Quentin stood up, feeling sick and dizzy and hot and cold all in the same instant.

“It’s been a year,” he shook his head, trying to keep calm.

“They also found this,” Queen almost whispered, holding out a chain with a small skyline pendant.

Quentin surged forward, snatching it with a shaky hand. 

“This was hers,” he managed to say hoarsely, and Queen nodded. Quentin took a blind step back, catching himself on the back of the couch. 

“When you say you don’t know, you mean you think she’s dead,” he accused, and Oliver Queen looked troubled once more. 

“I mean I don’t know,” he said, stepping towards the now shaking police captain.

“I should have picked her up,” Lance muttered.

“This is _ not _ your fault, Lance,” Queen told him sternly. “It never was.”

Lance laughed disbelievingly, staring off somewhere Queen couldn’t see.

“I gave up on looking,” he murmured, and Queen shook his head.

“Lance, listen,” he told him, and the man looked up at him blankly.

“Felicity, John and I are looking for her, okay? Thea’s looking. Even Roy’s looking, okay?”

Quentin gripped the couch, fingers white, and in a moment he sat down, still shaky.

“I need to think,” he whispered, and Queen nodded. He laid a hand on Quentin’s shoulder briefly, then let himself out, a quiet “If you need us, we’re here,” hanging in the air.

Quentin stared at the necklace in his hand and the silent apartment was slowly invaded by ragged sobs as the dawn broke over Star City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops don't mind me, I'll just be here crying in a corner.


	4. The Weight of the World is On You Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reflects on an unlikely friendship, and Quentin begins to spiral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the update took so long. It's been crazy with real life.  
I *promise* I will update the Dad! Quentin fic soon, as well as the One Foot Wrong series.  
*whispers* I promise.  
Title from Witness (Audio - Stripped version) by.... you already know. Daughtry.  
Just so its clear. I base the titles on the songs I listen to while writing the chapter.

Quentin didn’t go into work until noon the next day; the hours in between filled with restless sleep.

When he reached his desk, it took him a few minutes to set everything in order. 

He had left his desk and papers askew when he had left the other day, and he just needed to have some order in his life at least.

When a knock sounded at his door, he drew in a breath, hoping he looked at least some semblance of how a police captain should look.

He plastered the same everyday fake smile on just as the door opened and Laurel walked in.

“Laurel?” he stared at her as she marched around his desk and confronted him.

“Why are you drinking again?” she asked bluntly, and Quentin sighed. 

“It’s nothing big, sweetheart,” he told her, pushing the lie out past his teeth.

“Bull, dad!”

Quentin flinched as Laurel spat the words out. 

"I thought you'd stopped," she continued angrily. "If it wasn't for Sara I wouldn't even have known!"

He stared at her wordlessly as the pain in his head slowly grew.

"Dad!"

He snapped back to attention.

"Are you even listening?" Laurel asked him sharply.

"Yeah," he lied, the words heavy in his mouth. "I'm sorry, sweetheart."

"Like hell you are," Laurel snarled and left.

The door slammed mightily and the pain in his head spike.

He dropped his head into his hands with a groan.

So Laurel was pissed. Sara too, most likely.

And a headache was setting in. He weighed his options.

He could take something for the headache and just power through the day.

He could let himself have one drink, just to take the edge off.

He could just go home.

His stomach churned at the thought of another lonely, quiet day at his apartment. Doubly so, since he seemed to be driving his remaining daughters away.

Well.

He threw back a few ibuprofen with a swig of coffee just as there came another knock on the door.

He looked up wearily.

"Lance," John Diggle greeted respectfully as he let himself in, closing the door behind him.

"Dig, good to see you," Quentin said with a thin smile.

Diggle stopped in front of his desk, appraising the officer in front of him.

"With all due respect, Lance, you don't look good," Dig finally said.

Quentin waved a hand dismissively, ignoring the sheer amount of energy the small action took.

"Been busy, Diggle. How can I help you?" Dig sat in the chair and pulled out his phone, showing the screen to Lance.

"We were poking around the warehouse. Found that."

Lance studied the picture of a shipping manifest, crumpled and dirty.

"What does it mean?" He asked Dig, sitting back in his chair.

Dig didn't miss the wince of pain that crossed Lance's face.

"We were actually hoping you had an idea," Dig admitted, and Lance let his head fall back on the chair.

"Nothing," he growled. "One damn year."

He stood up, going to the decanter on his desk.

"Scotch?" He asked Diggle abruptly, but not waiting for the answer. He poured two glasses with two fingers in each, and pushed one into Dig's hand. Quentin took his glass over to the window and stared out.

"Lance," Dig began softly, and emotions be hanged! Quentin felt his eyes burn, and he made himself swallow the alcohol. Laurel's words rang in his ear, and he fought the urge to put his fingers in his ears like a child.

"Lance, I promise you, we're looking for her." John Diggle's voice was firm, and Quentin felt the burn in his eyes grow.

"But you aren't sure if she's alive," Quentin said softly.

The silence behind him was telling, and Quentin threw back the rest of his scotch. He turned to see Diggle staring resolutely at him, and his gaze unnerved the seasoned cop.

He poured himself another drink - a full glass - and avoided the former soldier's eyes.

"You're on duty."

"Don't care," Quentin growled, before the temper rushed out of him, and he sat down hard in his chair.

"John," he sighed. "I'm still grieving. I don't know what that says about me, and I don't really give a damn." He took another drink before going on. "I had three daughters. I've lost both Laurel and Sara, but they always came back. And Jessa was always there. Now she's gone."

John watched him carefully; noted the almost imperceptible break in his voice.

"Jessa is gone, and my grief is pushing away Laurel and Sara. If I didn't know better, I'd almost say I've already lost them all." His voice was quiet, and he drained the rest of his glass.

~

John honestly was concerned.

The man in front of him was known for being one of the rocks of Star City, and that rock was crumbling.

Dig had been around daily for the ten months immediately following Jessa's disappearance. He, more than anyone, perhaps even more than Oliver and Felicity, knew how damaged and angry Quentin Lange had been. He had done everything he could to look for his daughter, and it took him months to accept that he had done everything in his power.

John Diggle had put himself in the responsibility of heading Lance's security team, despite the man fighting him constantly.

It had taken a day to convince Lance that he needed security, not necessarily for his sake, but for the sake of Sara and Laurel.

At times, Quentin's anger was overwhelming, fits of rage on a hair-trigger, and no one knew what would set him off for sure. There were days Quentin would hurl insults and abuse at his security team, who stood there silently, watching over him just the same. Dig knew he wasn't angry at them.

The anger did not scare John Diggle.

It was what happened between the anger that frightened him.

Between the fits of temper, Quentin Lance was a broken man; indeed sometimes the raging fire that was his temper were the only times he actually seemed alive.

There were days that Dig would never tell the others. Days where he'd have to physically haul Quentin out the door of his apartment. Days he'd sat there and coaxed the man into eating. Nights he'd wondered if Quentin would still be there the next day. 

Every night Quentin hunkered down on the couch. There were far too many nights John stayed over in fear of what he might find the next morning.

A night spent in the armchair, more often than not waking Quentin from a night terror. As far as John knew, he was the only one who knew how the dream would go. It almost never changed.

The anger and fear in Quentin's eyes when he woke would shift into gratitude as soon as he saw John.

No words were spoken, yet so much was said.

More often than not they'd go for a run.

Dig had far surpassed the line of personal security long ago, stepping firmly and permanently into the role of friend.

Lyla too, who would come around three or four nights a week and cook. The three would have dinner together, and once in awhile Lyla - bless her soul, John thought with a surge of love - would manage to get through the walls Quentin Lance had put up around himself.

Six months after it all, Lyla had coaxed a smile out of the man as she told the story of Oliver being so entranced with Felicity that he had chewed through a red pen. A small grin had spread across Quentin's face as she related how the ink had splattered over Oliver's face and down his shirt, and John walking in and panicking at the sight of what he thought was blood.

Quentin had excused himself and retired to the couch not long after, and as John and Lyla cleared the table, John smiled at his wife.

"You're amazing," he whispered to her as he began putting the leftovers away.

Lyla had been about to answer when the two heard a sound from the living room. Both stopped and stared at the other in shock as the sound registered.

Quentin Lance, who had spoken maybe ten words at dinner, was chuckling. And by the sound of the muttered words reaching the Diggles' ears through the muffled laughs, he was still finding humour in the pen story.

For the first time since hearing the news that Jessa was gone, John's eyes misted and he pulled Lyla into his arms tightly. The two stood in the kitchen, holding onto each other, tears running down their faces. 

They had stayed like that for a long time when someone cleared their throat from behind them. The two separated quickly to see Quentin leaning against the door frame with a half-smile. "Congratulations, by the way. I'm sorry I never said before."

John's eyebrows rose as Lyla's hand went to her stomach.

"How did you know?" John asked him, disbelieving. "We haven't even told Oliver or Felicity!"

Quentin smiled as he moved past Lyla to the kettle.

"You avoided both coffee and wine tonight. You always have wine, even if you skip the coffee." As he poured the hot water into the mug with a teabag, his slight chuckle jostled the kettle, spraying hot water across the counter and his hand.

He jerked back with a hiss, staring at his scalded hand, and froze.

John wondered if this would set off a rage.

Lyla surged forward and seized his hand and pressed it under the tap. Quentin still stood in shock.

As he met Lyla's concerned eyes, he put his arm around her, his burned hand still under the water. She gripped him tight as she saw him start to crumble. The two stood there for a while as John silently worked around them.

When Quentin pulled away, his eyes wet, he smiled at Lyla and picked up his mug.

"Congratulations," he said again, before laying a hand on John's shoulder on his way back to the couch.

John stood where he was, and it wasn't until Lyla's arms went around him that he came back to himself. As Lyla pulled him close, seemingly knowing the turmoil in his mind, he wondered if this was the corner. If Quentin was starting to get better.

~

As John reflected on that in the present moment, his mind came to the conclusion that his heart had already reached. The way Quentin acted in front of him now was almost identical to the Quentin from ten months ago. Which if John was honest, which he made a habit of, terrified him.

"I can hear you thinking," Quentin groused, avoiding John's eyes, and John sat forward in his seat.

"Quentin. Look, man. We're doing everything we can."

The first sob caught John by surprise, and Quentin too, by the look on his face.

John watched as Quentin clamped his jaw shut stubbornly, a sinking feeling in his chest as he watched him bury every emotion that he felt.

"Listen it's okay," John said softly, and he got up and moved in front of the cop, whose eyes were now fixed on a spot that John couldn't see.

Carefully John laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. Quentin's eyes slowly raised to John's, and he nodded once resolutely before his eyes dropped once more.

"I'm coming over tonight. I'm bringing Lyla. But right now? I'm bringing you home."

John said it matter of factly, knowing Quentin wouldn't refuse.

John was surprised, and more than a little moved when Quentin stood and threw an arm around his shoulder. Quentin was a master at hiding emotions, but the shining relief and gratitude in his eyes was enough for John.

"Get your bag," John commanded, putting on his professional persona like a coat.

He smiled once at Lance, who nodded back.

John moved outside the office door, standing guard professionally, but a commanding that everyone respected.

\---

Hours later found Quentin at the kitchen table, laughing at John's stories of Lyla's odd pregnancy cravings.

"When Dinah was pregnant with Sara, she craved fish sticks. And custard. It was the oddest thing. I tried it, couldn't even get it down. She loved it. It was the oddest thing. She said her mother used to love the same thing when she was pregnant..." he shrugged. "It's a bit beyond me."

Diggle groaned.

"I hope it's a boy."

Lyla laughed. "Only because he wouldn't have a clue how to raise a little girl."

Quentin chuckled.

"You teach them manners. You also teach them how to fight. Never stop them from learning, wherever it's by book or experience. Let them learn all they want. And be open. You will think you're wrong the entire time, and then they're grown and you barely even blinked. It feels long but it goes so fast. You never have enough time with them. Hold onto every damn moment you have."

After his words, he shut his mouth quickly, as if in surprise how much he had said.

He poured another mug of tea for him and Lyla and refilled John's wine, and the room went quiet.

He stared into his mug silently.

John and Lyla chatted around him, and soon enough he was jumping back into the conversation.

When the doorbell rang, he stood.

The door opened before he got there, and Laurel stood there.

Quentin turned away, moving back to the table.

"Dad I'm sorry," she said quietly, and he shook his head.

"You were right," he said evenly, still not looking at her.

"John and Lyla are here, sweetheart, would you like to stay?"

Laurel hesitated before shaking her head.

"I promised Jake we'd have dinner tonight."

Quentin nodded, and stood once more.

"I love you, sweetheart," he whispered as he engulfed his oldest daughter in a hug.

She hugged him back, and then she was gone.

He was silent as he sat back down, his cuffs soon wrinkled as he fiddled with them.

John caught a look from Lyla.

"We stay here tonight," she seemed to stay.

John, who was already tipsy, nodded, ready to put on the act.

"Quentin," he drawled, and the man looked up at him.

"I need another one," John slurred, and okay he was laying it on a bit thick, but he was having fun.

Quentin was amused, as normally John didn't indulge to the point of inebriation. But as the conversation had shown, it had been quite the day for them all, and he didn't mind.

"No, John. You've had enough," he told him, his lips quirking up as the man pouted.

Lyla yawned heavily, almost cracking her head in two, thought Quentin as he amusedly kept her from sliding off her chair.

A thought occurred to him, and he was alarmed. 

“You’re not driving. Either of you.”

Lyla looked put out. 

“I’m not so tired I can’t drive, Quentin,” she told him coldly.

He shook his head.   
“I can’t risk that. He’s too far gone, too.” He jerked his head towards the humming John.

“You’re both staying here tonight. You’ll take my room.” He stood up firmly, holding up a hand to stop Lyla’s protest.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

He turned, humming slowly under his breath as he set about changing the sheets.

A bitter laugh, not like he had used the bed anyway, he spent every night on the couch.

The bed was too soft, too forgiving. 

He couldn’t sleep in it. 

He didn’t want to sleep.

Lyla was half asleep at the table when he returned, and John was aggressively washing dishes.

Quentin paused in the doorway, an amused smile on his face as he took in the sight in front of him. 

“John,” he said lowly, stifling a laugh as John practically fell over. 

“Bed,” he said sternly, pointing towards the bedroom, and John began to walk past him, pinballing off the walls, and Quentin bit back a laugh. 

He took hold of John’s shoulders, steering him towards the bedroom. He sat John on the bed and turned back to the kitchen.

“Lyla,” he called softly, and she looked up at him, eyes bleary.   
“Okay,” she muttered as she pushed herself upright. “Okay.”

He watched her retreat down the hall and into the bedroom, and he sat on the couch, feeling a warm bit of something in his heart. 

A thought popped into his head, and he felt the dread creep up. 

Was there still alcohol left over?

He peeked over the back of the couch and was both relieved and annoyed to see the bottle of wine on the counter. 

Within a minute it was in his hand.

He hated the fact he did it. 

But it had been a rough day for everyone.

An hour later he had dug out the beer from the back cupboard. 

He was ashamed of the fact he had gone through half of the case.

Laurel’s words rang in his ears again. 

He drowned them out with another drink. 

His headache was coming on again. 

Another drink.

He had to stay quiet.

Another drink.

He couldn’t find the remote.

He’d finished the case.

The TV was too loud, it would wake up the Diggles.

Another bottle of wine.

He found himself in the kitchen. 

The bottle slipped from his hand. 

He recoiled as the bottle smashed on the floor. 

He dropped to his knees, not even noticing the shattered glass.

“Quentin?”

He looked up, meeting the concerned gaze of John Diggle.

John was taken aback at the desperate look on his friend’s face, and he jumped forward at the sight of the glass around him.

“Quentin, you need to stay still.” 

Quentin looked up at him.

John began to haul him off the floor.

“John, no,” he muttered as he pushed the other man away.

“Quentin, you’re three sheets to the wind,” came John’s quiet voice, and Quentin’s heart sank at the surprise and - dare he say, disappointment - in his voice.

“Get away,” he told him angrily, and he didn’t miss the hurt in John’s eyes as Quentin stalked away.

He was in the bedroom before he remembered, guilt slashing through him as Lyla sat up. 

“Quentin?” her voice was sharp, her training waking her on a moment’s notice.

“Sorry, sorry, Ly,” he said, wincing. “I didn’t remember. Don’t mind me, I’ll be gone in a moment.”

“Where are you going?” He heard the alarm in her voice, and he swore silently.

“Going for a run.” 

He grabbed a sweatshirt and his keys, not even bothering to change into his gear.

As he got into the hallway John was suddenly in his way.

“The hell you going, Quentin?” John was angry now, and Quentin felt his own temper rise, the alcohol breaking down his carefully built walls.

“For a run,” he said coldly, pushing past John.

  
As he got out onto the street, he took a breath, the air he exhaled stolen away in a puff of mist. 

The cold air nipped at his hands, and he briefly wished he’d brought his gloves.

Someone was clattering down the stairs in the building, and Quentin smirked. 

He’d give John a run for his money.

He took off down the street, ignoring everything that did not affect him. 

He was running off his anger, the pain, the guilt.

He was blind to the world around him.

His reaction time was decreased as the alcohol's hold only firmed.

He never thought to look as he passed the street corner.

He never saw the bus. 

He never even heard John screaming his name.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispering*  
I'm sorry.  
I am.  
I really am.


	5. We All Have a Cage to Rattle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin realizes something, and he makes his choices.

_ He never thought to look as he passed the street corner. _

_ He never saw the bus. _

_ He never even heard John screaming his name. _

He was tossed roughly to the concrete, his head cracking on the pavement. 

He had bounded up in an instant, staring after the bus that had almost hit him. 

His mind turned, hurting with the sheer number of questions shifting through his mind.

John stood in front of him, watching him silently.

Quentin felt dizzy. The pieces connected.

“You pulled me back,” he said breathlessly, staring at his hands. They were shaking.

He was shaking.

“Quentin, you’d be dead if I didn’t come after you.”

Quentin looked up at John, and his eyes blazed.

“I never asked you, Diggle.”

“Are you okay?” John stepped forward, his hand reaching towards Quentin’s shoulders, and Quentin shook him off angrily.

“Get off me!” The words were sharp, a burst of staccato, and John stepped back.

Quentin was furious.

“You had no _ right _,” he insisted, his voice tight with rage, “to follow me, John Diggle.”

John’s surprise had shifted to hurt, then to anger.

“I saved your life, Quentin!”

“I didn’t ask you to! You- you…. Traitor-” Quentin stammered, his anger clouding him. 

“You never should have come!” the cop shouted, and John saw red.

  
  


“Do you have a death wish?” he said disbelievingly, and Quentin scoffed.

“And what if I do?” he shot back haughtily and knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say.

John froze, and Quentin swore. 

“Forget I said that,” he growled, turning around and jogging towards home.

“Quentin, wait!” John caught up to him and pulled Quentin’s arm, forcing him to stop.

“Let go, Diggle,” Quentin hissed, and John shook his head.

“Not until you tell me why you said that.”

“Dark humor, apparently,” Quentin drawled. “It seems to be the in-thing to do these days.”

He pulled his arm from John’s grasp with a huff, walking away. 

“Quentin, listen to me-”

Quentin spun around, his eyes fiery with the realization of John’s motives.

“You weren’t that drunk,” he accused. “You stayed because you wanted to check on me.”

He laughed bitterly.

“Look how that turned out, Diggle. Your perfect record seems to be a thing of the past,” he mocked.

Diggle stared at him, and Quentin tried to ignore the hurt on his face as he stalked away.

He hunkered down on the couch once more, refusing to talk to either of the Diggles.

He drifted off to sleep and was awake again within an hour.

He pretended he didn’t see John at the living room door.

\--- _ _ _ ---/--- _ _ _ ---/--- _ _ _ ---

The next morning he had gone before John had woken up.

John caught Lyla’s eye as they locked the apartment door behind them, and she looked more worried than she had in months.

After dropping Lyla off at her building, John made his way to the SCPD station.

He took up his post outside Quentin’s door, ignoring the small part of his that was still angry.

-

Quentin heard John take his post, and the guilt choked him once more. 

He needed to apologize, but he couldn't think.

His headache was worse today, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. 

He eyed the bottle of scotch on the counter before he shook his head. 

An action that made him wince. 

Yeah. John was angry and hurt, and so was he. But, he rationalized, John was trying to help him. So while he didn't entirely agree, he appreciated it.

-

The door opened behind John, and he turned to see Quentin at the door.

“Diggle,” he was greeted with a nod, pulling the door open further.

John entered, standing in front of the desk respectfully.

“Good morning, Captain,” he said stiffly, eyes forward, and he heard rather than saw Quentin’s wince.

“John,” he swore under his breath before continuing. “I’m sorry about last night.”

John turned to him, taking in his friend’s pallor and general unsteadiness. 

“You were angry and drunk,” he muttered at last, and Quentin watched him carefully. “I know you didn’t mean a lot of what you said.”

Quentin smiled wanly, picking up a decanter of water. He poured two glasses, and handing one to John, raised his glass.

“To the honesty of friends?” he asked wryly, and John smirked.

“To the _ continued _honesty,” he corrected, and Quentin laughed.

“That was fair,” he admitted.

He turned back to the desk, and John swore.

“Quentin,” he said urgently, and the police captain turned to look at him, puzzled. For the first time, John saw his friend’s instincts slow.

His words were cut from his lips as he staggered, gripping John’s arm to stay upright.

“Dizzy,” he muttered, screwing his eyes shut and leaning on the desk.

“What are you feeling?” John asked him, his voice rock steady.

“Headache, but that’s not new,” Quentin groused, thinking. 

John looked around the small office before he caught sight of the scotch bottle.

“How much have you had?” he asked alarmed, and Quentin tried to remember.

“None. You can check the seal,” he finally grasped at the answer, and as he swayed, he felt John push him gently to the floor.

As he sat up against the edge of his desk, a thought occurred to him, and he chuckled.

“What?” John was staring at him skeptically.

“I hit my head last night,” he chuckled, things suddenly much more humourous than an hour ago.

John swore. 

“On what?”

The police officer shrugged.   
  


“The pavement,” he hummed thoughtfully, and John pulled his phone out, dialling 9-1-1 and setting it beside the two men.

“What’s wrong?” Quentin asked sluggishly, and he stared up at John.

John stared down at him; angry, and concerned. 

“Something’s wrong,” he whispered as he checked his friend’s pulse, right before a horrible thought occurred to him.

It had occurred to Quentin too, who was fighting to keep his eyes open. He realized with one horrible clap of dread what he had done.

John was talking to the dispatcher.

"Concussion," he said before his throat closed up and his eyes closed.

Or thought he said.

\--

John was pacing the hallway, as he had for the last twenty minutes.

“Mr. Diggle,” Dr. Schwartz said quietly, and he turned to her.

John searched her face and sighed in relief. 

“We’ll keep him for observation tonight,” she was saying, and he nodded.

As John moved to follow her, she turned away.

“He asked me to tell you to go home.”

John stopped. 

“I’ll go after I talk to him,” he said cautiously, and she shook her head. 

Dr. Schwartz sighed. “He said to go home, John. He doesn’t want to see you right now.”

The words hit hard, and John Diggle felt the anger bubble up.

Beth Schwartz cut him off before he began with a hand up.

“John, you need to go. At least for now.”

Hurt, John retreated out the door. 

\--

Quentin signed the discharge form that Dr. Schwartz pressed into his hand, and he thanked with a smile as he began to make his way to the lobby.

Hopefully a cab wouldn't take too long.

He was surprised then, to see Lyla leaning against the doorway.

She looked up with an easy smile as he approached.

“What are you doing here?”

Lyla’s smile dropped a bit at the caution in his tone, but she kept smiling regardless.

“I’m driving you back.” She paused, uncertain. “That okay?”

He hesitated, and then remembered the painkillers in his bag and the cases of beer under the bed.

He’d be okay.

“Sure,” he said.

\--

Lyla dropped him off at home, and as he got out of the car he shot her a quick smile, pretending he didn’t see her pull out her phone as he left.

As Lyla pulled out of the driveway, he took the bottle of pills from his bag and threw them on the table carelessly.

He switched on the TV, as loud as he could. Anything to shut up the noise in his head.

Within ten minutes there were three cases of beer on the table as he settled down on the couch

\--- _ _ _ ---.

A knock on the door startled him awake in the quickly fading twilight. He found himself trying to remember what he’d done. A quick check of his phone showed four missed calls from John Diggle, and judging by the noise, he was at Quentin’s door.

Quentin knew _ damn _ well that he wasn’t thinking clearly. And yet he knew he couldn’t face John. Not now- not like this.

He was on the fire escape before he knew it. He’d go to Sara’s.

“Quentin, I know you’re there, I hear you,” came John’s annoyed voice.

As Quentin made his way down the fire escape, he could feel the effects of the alcohol hitting him.

He made his way onto the street, and found himself stopped. 

He stared at the traffic as it passed him by, the dull roar in his head.

He found himself entranced by the cars as they passed, the lights against the near darkness sending starbursts into his tired eyes.

“Quentin!” he heard John’s voice through a tunnel far, far behind him, and it was nothing to ignore it.

He found himself staring at the bus, bus number 87, route 43. It came at the same time every night. He remembered it. He’d watched it for so long. 

He stepped forward.

“Quentin!”

Another step.

“Lance, no!”

One more.

He was almost at the road.

“Dad!” came a scream.

This time, he didn’t even blink as he passed the street corner.

This time he saw the bus. 

This time, he heard all the voices. John and Lyla. And Sara.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from "Death of Me" by Daughtry. I'd say something witty but its 1.32 a.m. here and i need sleep and pain meds, not neccesarily in that order. Any mistakes in this chapter are 110% mine.


End file.
